


The First Step Is Always The Hardest

by KuriNCIS (KuriKoer)



Series: Wake Up Call [2]
Category: NCIS
Genre: BDSM, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Dom/sub, Fetish, First Time, Kink, M/M, Spanking, dressed!sex, mentions of polyamory, mentions of threesome, public sex fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriNCIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first time; pwp. Palmer is kinky, Gibbs enables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Step Is Always The Hardest

"What do you want, Palmer?"

And Palmer chokes on the response. Because there can be so many answers to that, so many. I want to fear you. I want to not be afraid of you. I want that shaky, tingly feeling you inspire sometimes, and that controlled strength. And, Palmer thinks, I want the rough hands and the strong arm and the tough love, I want the tough love, and I want your hands on me in supplication, mine, and discipline, mine, and pleasure, yours, and yeah, mine too, because...

"Uh..."

Gibbs allows himself a smile. "Just tell me what you had in mind there, Jimmy."

And Palmer goes weak in the knees. Just a little.

Gibbs encourages him, with a nod, with warmth. It's a sparse living room they both stand in, facing each other, but it's strangely warm, more home-like than Palmer expected, for some reason. A little dreary, maybe, but welcoming. At least Palmer feels it is. He's been known to be wrong.

"You headslap everybody," he blurts.

"Not everybody," Gibbs amends evenly.

"But no one enjoys it like I do," Palmer says, very quietly.

"No, they don't," Gibbs agrees with a grin, and then amends that too, "I'm not so sure about DiNozzo."

"And," Palmer says, shaking now, "I know I'm a pervert."

"You are?" Gibbs raises an eyebrow. His tone is too calm, Palmer thinks. Like a Good Cop interrogation. Leading him somewhere.

"I know everyone at work thinks I'm a pervert," Palmer clarifies.

"I don't really give a crap what everyone at work thinks," Gibbs says, each word slow, measured, heavy, and clear.

Palmer swallows. Gibbs takes a step closer to him, and Palmer feels his own mouth stretching in a smile, a bright, wide, terrified one. Another step, and Gibbs is right next to him.

"Do _you_ think you're a pervert?" The words are a hot whisper against his ear. Palmer thinks, oh God yes.

"No," he says, and he's proud that his voice barely trembles.

"Boots and all?", Gibbs asks, amused.

"Boots and... hey, how do you know about that?" Palmer's eyes widen.

Gibbs just raises an eyebrow.

Palmer's mouth feels dry. "Do you have any?"

"Boots?", Gibbs asks, in what sounds like surprise.

Palmer nods, almost imperceptibly.

"Not Abby's style," Gibbs grins. Palmer waits another moment. Gibbs shrugs. "I have work boots."

Palmer can imagine it. Worn, brown leather. Scuffed, used, real. He inhales, his eyes half closed in anticipation.

"I'll have to dig them out, I see," Gibbs mumbles, his own eyes heavy-lidded in response to Palmer's. He follows the younger man's reactions, from the most minute tense muscle in his jaw, to the most obvious. "Anything more?"

"Uh, spanking," Palmer manages to squeeze the word past his lips.

Gibbs only gives him another inscrutable grin. "I can imagine."

"Um. Domination," Palmer says, vaguely.

"Not surprised there, either," Gibbs says, a little dry, perhaps a little amused to Palmer's ears, not shocked, not judging. Palmer wishes he could just drop to his knees, but he knows it's not time yet.

Gibbs waits, and a thousand scenarios run through Palmer's mind. All the things he could do, all the things he never did, all the things he can imagine this man doing. But he says nothing.

He dared all that he could dare tonight; he pushed his own limits, went beyond what he thought he could, or should. He spent all his daring credit. All he has left is waiting for Gibbs to take the reins from him that were never his to begin with.

And Gibbs senses that, the way he tends to. He raises a hand to Palmer's cheek, caresses it so softly Palmer starts shaking.

"And kissing?", Gibbs asks softly.

"I love kissing," Palmer blurts, and it's the last words he can utter because Gibbs holds him to his mouth in a searing kiss.

It's not really what he expected; he's not sure what he expected, but this open-mouthed, sloppy, ravenous kiss wasn't it. He responds to it, though, responds to Gibbs and to his guiding hand, to his hunger, to his lips and the stubble of late nights and long cases. He closes his eyes and seconds later his glasses are taken away from him and there's a small clink, and for a moment Palmer hopes that Gibbs put them down gently, and the next moment he doesn't think at all. He forgets all about the glasses until the kiss ends, and Gibbs pulls back, and the warmth is gone. Palmer opens his eyes and everything is a little fuzzy.

"I can't see very well," he says, self-conscious.

"You don't have to," Gibbs breathes, gruff with heat and with the kiss, taking Palmer's hand and leading him through the blurred living room and into a dark corridor, and past a door and into a room. There's a bed, Palmer notices. There's what he thinks is a large bookcase. There's a window covered in a thick curtain, probably black or dark grey or dark blue; Palmer can barely make out the shape of the window behind it, in very thin, very dim lines of light.

Gibbs turns on a small lamp. The circle of light is a warm yellow, and Palmer can see a nightstand and a pillow. It doesn't light much else.

"You okay?", Gibbs asks.

Palmer swallows. Gibbs is still Gibbs, a solid frame, a glow of hair, but his features are unclear in this dim light, in these shadows. He's all voice and demeanor and smell now, and warmth still radiating somehow between them. Palmer chokes back a sob. "I want to..."

"C'mere," Gibbs sits down on the side of the bed, and Palmer stumbles forward gratefully and drops, carpet rough under his knees, under his hands, and rests his head on Gibbs' thigh. The large, warm hand caresses through his hair. "Relax."

"I am relaxed," Palmer says, not entirely lying. He's nervous and wound tight as a string, but he also feels safe, very safe. And anticipation sends tiny electric waves lapping at his skin.

"You want to talk before we start?", Gibbs says, almost too gentle for Palmer to bear.

Palmer shakes his head. "I want..."

It's not the first time he doesn't manage to finish this line. He isn't sure what's at the end of it. A brief image flashes through his mind; propped over Gibbs' legs, in his lap, awkward but not too awkward, not uncomfortable. Hand from the top of his head, sliding down his back, and Gibbs' famous slap falling on his ass, hard and uncompromising and agonizingly sweet. He shudders.

"Come up here," Gibbs finally says, and guides him onto the narrow bed. Palmer checks his ego at the door; never had that much to begin with. He lets Gibbs arrange him, face down on the covers, head turned a little. The pillow is soft and bright yellow under his cheek. The covers are rough, scratchy, dark blue. Gibbs is still sitting down. Palmer is strangely glad that they are both still dressed.

Gibbs rests a hand on the back of his head. He doesn't move it, for a while, and the warmth soaks through Palmer's short hair. He starts breathing faster, and then Gibbs does move his hand, down to Palmer's neck. And back up again. He does just this, caressing Palmer's head, the nape of his neck. Letting his fingers linger, letting them trail. Palmer whimpers.

"Tell me what your fantasies are," Gibbs says. His voice is low, almost hypnotic.

"Please..." Palmer says, begs, whispering the single syllable into a stretched, long plea.

Gibbs' hand leaves his neck and a heartbeat later connects with his ass. It's a sharp slap, even over his pants. Palmer breathes even faster. His eyes are shut tight. His toes curl in his shoes.

"Tell me what your fantasies are, Jimmy," Gibbs repeats, insistent. His hand returns to Palmer's head, where it pauses for a moment to tweak his ear playfully. Palmer thinks of a strict teacher and a wayward student and his Y-fronts tighten uncomfortably. The soft caresses on the nape of his neck resume.

"I, uh..." He swallows. "I have a fantasy of doing it in the autopsy room."

"I thought you already did that." Strange, Palmer thinks in a daze, how normal Gibbs' amused voice sounds, even low and breathy, even in this half-dark room.

"...With, uh, Dr. Mallard," he finishes. The hand on his head pauses for the briefest of moments. Then it resumes.

"Go on," Gibbs says evenly.

"I don't have to," Palmer mumbles.

And Gibbs' fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his head up only an inch, but it's enough. Palmer blinks owlishly and understands. The words tumble from his mouth.

"Bend over the autopsy table. It's clean. But cold, it's cold, and... bend over, he's angry, only he's not, you know how sometimes Dr. Mallard's eyes look like he's, like he thinks you're naughty?" Words spill out, without order, without much sense. He trusts Gibbs to capture them and make some sense, find the order. "Naughty, and his hands, he has really strong, uh, arms, hands, freakish even," Palmer gives a little giggle, maybe hysteria, and the hand on his head keeps its soothing rhythm, its calming influence. "Bent on the table, and he, uh, spanks me, hard, until I..."

"Yes?", Gibbs asks, very quietly, and his hand tightens just a little in Palmer's hair.

"Until I come," Palmer stutters. "And then he makes me clean it."

Gibbs pauses. Palmer can feel his face heat up, and he's sure it's bright red against the pillow. His cock is so hard it nearly brings tears to his eyes.

"Good fantasy," Gibbs finally says.

Palmer forgets his embarrassment momentarily. "You really think so?", he turns his head, flashes a bright, dazzling smile, aching for Gibbs to say something, anything to show he's not hiding his horror or pity.

"I just said so, didn't I," Gibbs says, just as evenly, but his breath is a little more rapid than it was before, and the smile on his face, Palmer is sure, is one he's never seen in the office.

It's a good smile. It's predatory, but very different to Gibbs' usual predatory smile, which is just scary. This one makes Palmer want to get caught, pounced on, licked within an inch of his life.

He shakes himself mentally and takes a deep breath.

"So... what do you plan on doing?"

Gibbs looks down at him and it's an angle Palmer's not used to. He likes it.

"I thought I'd get to know you," he says plainly. Palmer relaxes a smidgen. Gibbs pauses, and then adds slyly, "Why, did you want more?"

He glides his finger down Palmer's back, along his spine, over his shirt. He pauses at Palmer's belt, and then his finger slides in the gap between and rummages until he finds the warm skin underneath. Palmer shudders.

"I like belts," Gibbs says casually, confiding.

It's nothing more than a light touch against the small of his back, but Palmer feels it with every nerve-ending.

"Tell me another fantasy," Gibbs says, and adds with humour, "one with me in it."

"I don't really have ones with belts," Palmer says, oddly disappointed. Yet, he doesn't add.

Gibbs laughs, and it brings a smile to Palmer's mouth as well. "Doesn't have to be. Just tell me anything."

Palmer stops to gather his wits, closes his eyes and concentrates.

"The elevator," he says.

"Public," Gibbs notes, with a note of detached appreciation.

"No," Palmer hastens to assure him, "I know you stop it all the time."

Gibbs quietly, eloquently, raises an eyebrow.

"Some times," Palmer amends.

Gibbs nods, allowing the statement.

"So... no risk," Palmer says.

"But people are banging on the doors," Gibbs mumbles. "Wondering what the hell is going on in there."

Palmer's breath catches in his throat. He wonders if Gibbs really is a mind reader, because that's just what he thought about, too; the dull, metallic thuds, the impatient, frustrated people just on the other side...

"What _is_ going on in there, Palmer?", Gibbs mutters under his breath.

"On my knees," Palmer is more confident now, because the picture is so clear in his mind; the sounds, the smells, everything. "Hard floor..."

"Cold again?" Gibbs is curious.

"I'm not in my scrubs," Palmer's words come to him from far away, lost in a dream, "I'm wearing my suit."

"Warmer," Gibbs agrees.

"And a tie," Palmer says, not sure why it's important for him to explain how professional he looks.

"Respectable," Gibbs supplies.

"Exactly." He opens his eyes. Gibbs is there, in the warm circle of light with him. Palmer smiles and the response is encouraging. "Hands on your hips..."

His glance is questioning. Gibbs nods, and Palmer sneaks one hand and rests it on Gibbs' thigh. Solid muscle. He squeezes a little and Gibbs' own hand splays under his shirt. It's pleasant, and Palmer closes his eyes and savours the sensation.

"With your, um..." he opens his eyes. Glances at Gibbs, at the noticeable give at the front of his slacks.

"It's called a dick, Palmer," Gibbs says dryly.

Palmer licks his lips. "With your dick out." He swallows, only this time, his throat isn't dry; he's salivating. "In my mouth." His eyes are only half-open and staring at Gibbs. Waiting for a reaction. Gibbs' hand mimics the earlier petting, moving back and forth along Palmer's lower back. His own eyes are heavy with lust, too.

He seems to approve of the idea. That gives Palmer courage.

"...Can I do that?", he asks, boldly. His smile widens.

"Not in the elevator, you can't," Gibbs growls, shaking himself from probably the very same daydream.

"I mean, now," Palmer says, less sure of himself, but his tongue licks his lips despite his better judgment.

And Gibbs' answering smile is as wide. "Move over," he says, nudging Palmer further towards the wall, sliding closer to him. He arranges a seat for himself on the pillow, and Palmer leans on his elbows and keeps his head bowed, his eyes trained on Gibbs' fly.

He reaches for it. Fingers lace in his hair, caressing and holding. Palmer lowers the zipper, busy fingers pushing cotton aside to take Gibbs out. It's perfect, just like he imagined, dark pink, swollen, though not entirely erect.

"I didn't see the night ending like this, that's for sure," Gibbs mumbles, sounds lost in thought, but when Palmer glances up, Gibbs' eyes meet his in full recognition, full pleasure. Palmer gives one last small smile, more an encouragement to himself than anything, and leans in to take the tip in his mouth.

Gibbs moans. It's a rich, deep sound, a chest-voice baritone. It reverberates in Palmer's ears and he moans in a natural, unconscious response to it. The fingers in his hair tighten a little, and that too is pleasant somehow.

He licks, allowing himself to feel the texture, savour the taste. To really get the softness at the tip of his tongue. Then he sucks hard and feels it hardening, lengthening in his mouth. He goes to work on it, sucking in rhythm, and Gibbs' hands are on his head, not forcing him anywhere, but a constant reminder. Palmer sniffs the scent nestled in the warmth of the coarse hair; he notices a few grey curls, fewer than he'd expect. Down here the colour is almost entirely dark.

He grins at his discovery and then realizes he'll have no one to share it with. It's not exactly something he could bring up as an anecdote while he and Dr. Mallard share their little stories over a cadaver. 'Oh, and by the way, did you know that Gibbs' pubes are...'

For a moment, the imaginary conversation is too ridiculous to contemplate. The very next moment he thinks about Gibbs' reaction to his first fantasy, the gruff, low tone of Gibbs' voice when he said it was good. The knowing glances often shared over his head in the autopsy room. The idea doesn't seem so ludicrous anymore. The thought catches on Palmer's breath, and he inhales, stumbles, surprised and choking when he takes too much, cock halfway down his throat and filling his mouth entirely, resting heavily on his tongue. Above him, Gibbs groans, shudders, and comes. Palmer feels it, thick and creamy and sliding deep down his throat, and when he pulls back, what's left of it is shooting into his mouth. He lets it coat his tongue. He lets it dribble on his lips, and touches the corner of his mouth, watching it glistening on his fingers.

Gibbs is trying to catch his breath.

"Nice," he finally says, still breathless, short hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes are glittering, and that smile is on his face again, the smile Palmer saw earlier, the one he's never seen before tonight.

Gibbs is still dressed, and through the one undone button of his shirt Palmer can see his chest, covered in perspiration. He leans in to lick just a touch of that warm salt.

The hands return to his hair, caressing again. He rests his head on Gibbs' chest and listens to the thundering heart.

"Nice," Gibbs says again, softer this time, and he doesn't just mean the blow job, he's talking about Palmer as a whole. Palmer feels like he's glowing. He also feels he's very, very hard, and his own pressing needs are not pressed against anything in particular at the moment.

He remedies that, shifting a little and pushing himself against Gibbs' leg. That earns him a fond, breathless chuckle, and a ruffle of his hair.

"Can we kiss some more?", he asks, oddly shy, still excited. Gibbs is much more mellow now, different, but still Gibbs.

"Sure thing," he grins. "As long as you promise me you swallowed," he adds lightly, pushing a wet curl from Palmer's forehead, eyes scanning his face. "Come up here."

Palmer shuffles until he's straddling Gibbs, knees wedged on both sides of the older man's thighs, and together they take up the width of the bed. Gibbs' hands fall down to his ass and pull him forward to grind, like he did in the car, but it's so much better when Gibbs dictates the rhythm, the pressure. Palmer moans and grins like an idiot, and licks his lips one last time before he dives in for that promised kiss.

And it's a lot like the first one, though slower, a little, Palmer thinks in a haze, more contemplative. Like Gibbs is studying him, getting to know him, getting to know his taste. His taste right after Gibbs came in his mouth, at least. Palmer is blissed. The kiss goes on in leisure.

"That's kinda what you wanted earlier in the van, isn't it," Gibbs mumbles against his lips.

Palmer thinks about Gibbs in the car, under the dim headlights, and now in the circle of the bedside lamp. He hums something to the positive. "Mm, yeah."

"Except Ducky was in the back," Gibbs reminds him.

Palmer's cock jumps. "Mmm, yeah...."

"And Ziva was right across the parking lot, looking at us," Gibbs adds casually. His hand slips into Palmer's pants.

Palmer's brain takes a moment to catch up with the rest of him. "Yea... wait, what?"

Gibbs chuckles now. His hands run up and down Palmer's back, under his shirt. "We were in the light. The perfect target."

Despite the warmth of the hands he'd wanted on him for a long time, a chill runs down Palmer's spine. "Wh... I... didn't know that."

Gibbs laughs openly. It's a pleasant sound. "I did."

Palmer understands Ziva's smirk by the elevators now. "Should I worry?"

Gibbs frowns. "She wasn't going to shoot us, Jimmy."

Palmer puts his head on Gibbs' shoulder. "What if she tells anyone?", he whispers.

"She won't," Gibbs dismisses his fears, patting his back reassuringly. "Now come on."

His hands insinuate themselves, shoving fabric down inch by inch until Palmer's pants are off as much as they can be with him still sitting atop Gibbs. It's just enough for Gibbs' hands to cover almost all when he grasps and squeezes Palmer's ass, causing the young man to hiss and moan. "I think this would work better if you get across here," Gibbs says and pats his lap. Palmer moans again.

He tries to lie down over Gibbs' knees, but they're lengthwise to the narrow bed and he fumbles, not wanting to knock over the lamp, his legs too long and bumping into the wall. Gibbs hauls him up, rises after him. They both stand.

"I'm as awkward about this as you are," he says; there's a pleased contentment about him, like a lion in the shade after a good meal, and Palmer's heart jitters. Gibbs yanks his slacks down in one pull. He hisses, then looks down. His cock is hard, pointing up, leaving a damp spot on his shirttails.

"Standing to attention," he mumbles, then a chuckle escapes him. Bad timing, Dr. Mallard had said more than once, bad taste, strange sense of humour.

Gibbs doesn't seem to mind. He sits back down, this time with his back to the wall, leaving the whole length of the bed for Palmer to stretch on, lie across. Face on the pillow again, he wraps his arms around it. He's bare-assed on Gibbs' knees. That thought keeps him tingling. It also keeps him shallowly thrusting against Gibbs' pant leg. Gibbs' own softening cock is brushing against his flank. The touch is somehow still tantalizing.

"Iliac crest," he mumbles.

"Hm?" Gibbs runs fingers down the cleft of his ass. It's distracting. It's also amazing.

"Hip bone," Palmer clarifies. He nudges sideways. Gibbs understands. 

"Sensitive here?", he asks, and caresses the soft, stretched skin over Palmer's jutting hip bone.

"Sensitive everywhere," Palmer whispers, because at the moment, it feels like that's the case.

"Not too sensitive, I hope," Gibbs says, and very, very lightly, slaps him a few times on the ass, as if checking the bounciness. It's just a preamble, testing the waters so to speak, but Palmer can feel the weight of the hand on him, and it's promising all kinds of wonderful, dirty, naughty things.

And then it starts. Gibbs raises his hand and it falls with great velocity, the impact shuddering through Palmer, shaking the bed. Gibbs waits, a brief second longer than Palmer would expect, and then another slap falls. The next falls off rhythm, and the one after it is immediate. There is no reason or order.

Palmer whimpers and moans and squirms, and pushes his cock against Gibbs' trouser leg and pushes his ass backwards, and lets his legs fall apart as much as they can, still trapped in his pants. There isn't much give. And Gibbs pauses to squeeze his ass again.

"Good," he says, matter-of-fact, "it's turning pink already." His voice is heavy with lust and appreciation. Palmer squirms some more. "You having fun?"

Palmer closes his eyes. "I really, really am."

Above him, Gibbs chuckles. Palmer inhales deeply and smells clean laundry and the smell of sex where Gibbs sat before.

And the spanking keeps on going. Palmer is sore, and hot, and entirely pleased.

"Bet you Ducky wouldn't have minded," Gibbs suddenly says. Palmer squeaks in surprise, though surprise is by far not the only reaction. "We could take turns," he muses, and Palmer rubs himself harder against him; the slaps become harder and faster, answering his rhythm. "Between us, we could probably keep you like this for hours..."

Palmer warbles something incoherent; an amalgam of all the words he can remember right now, 'oh God' and 'please yes' and 'harder' and 'Gibbs...'

"You know," Gibbs says conversationally, "he made me come on this bed more than once."

And Palmer is close, so close.

"Proud tradition," Gibbs adds; he sounds deep in thought, but his hand smarts Palmer, catching him on the seat, over the creases of his thighs, the large hand covering both cheeks. Palmer squirms and groans.

Gibbs stops, and runs his thumb down Palmer's ass, pausing to press right over the small opening.

"I'd like to get inside this one day," he says, his voice low, full of promise. His hand delivers one last, powerful smack.

Palmer freezes, and then he shudders and his whole world is a single point of hot, stinging pleasure, leaving a large wet stain on Gibbs' pants and bed covers.

He's not sure if he passed out, or was merely dazed and blissfully fuck-stupid. He can only accept and obey when Gibbs helps him out of his pants, out of his sweaty shirt, peeling back the covers and then tucking a blanket around him.

"It's late. Stay here." It's half compassion, half an order. Palmer smiles and nods, feeling lethargic, almost mindless.

"Gibbs," he mumbles. Gibbs turns, walks back to him, stands by the pillow. He smiles down at Palmer, and caresses his cheek. Palmer rubs his face against that hand.

"I'll be upstairs," Gibbs says. "Lend you a shirt or something tomorrow morning."

"Good night," Palmer says sleepily.

"Good night, Jimmy," Gibbs says softly, and turns off the lamp before heading out the door.


End file.
